I have a little button that reads “Wherever you go, there you are.” I pinned it to the corner of a small bulletin board on the wall above my desk at home. I smirk when I glance up and see it.
So true. So true.
Right now where I am is in Tours, France, in the eighth month of what was originally to be a one-year adventure in this country, living in different cities and going to French classes. A month ago I changed my plans: I wanted to go back home to Alameda sooner, so now I’ll be back in California at the end of June.
I think.
Traveling is always an eye-opener, both in terms of the external places, people, and cultures you experience, and in terms of introspective journeys, too. In this last month of my travel, the introspective aspect has taken the wheel to such an extent that I think about that little button’s words every day.
Take today, for example. It’s Saturday, which means I didn’t get up at 7 in order to have an unhurried morning with a petite dejeuner while perusing email and other online shiny procrastinator things before reviewing the French language information we’re tackling in class. Instead, I slept late and went out to walk around before the big rains that Accuweather had been warning us about began.
I found my way past the crowded street near my apartment where the weekend markets were happening, and with the aid of my trusty map app on my phone found the most direct path to a creperie whose reviews had convinced me to give it a try.
Unfortunately, the food and drink weren’t very good. It was just a simple buckwheat crepe—a galette—with ham and cheese, and a glass of demi sec cider. I’d had both before so I suppose I had some expectations in addition to the promise of the glowing reviews. I could hardly finish the crepe and only drank half of the cider. Strange tastes to both of them. But when the server asked me if I liked everything, I merely said with what I hoped was a convincing smile, “Oui, merci. Avoir!”
Sigh…not so good. Just strange!
On to try a different creperie and this time I was going for the sweet stuff. To hell with the protein breakfast! I’d order a scandalous crepe sucre with chocolate, banana, Chantilly cream, nuts and whatever else there was. Alas! It was crowded and even though there a was an empty table for two, the greeter told me he was sorry, but that there was no place for une personne. Hrumfph! FINE! I’ll take my unhealthy food cravings elsewhere then!
Although I had really hoped to discover a new place, it was increasingly windy and getting cloudier and colder outside, so I decided to “settle” for a cafe I had been to before that had excellent cappuccino and a pistachio scone to die for. I didn’t want to push my luck with the weather and face a twenty-minute walk home in the rain, so I went in to Kat’s Coffee.
I put my backpack on the seat, and walked straight to the counter to order my coffee AND to make sure the pistachio scone was being offered. YES! I exchanged pleasantries with the server, who had told me during my previous visit that he made the scones himself, and he asked me if I was having “the same”. I wanted to hug him for asking me that: it made me feel that I was remembered and kind of a ‘regular’ already.
As I sat there savoring my scone with apricot jam, and my not-quite-hot-enough-for-my-taste-but-still-delicious cappuccino, I jotted down some notes as I usually do in cafes and bars. A couple came in, and the woman went to the counter to order while the man sat at the table facing mine. I heard her struggling with her French, and from his seat the man prompted her with the right response to the server’s questions. The woman let out a little exasperated sigh at her attempts to converse, and I shared a smile with the man. He said something in French to me and I realized that he had assumed I was French and he was, in a sense, laughing ‘with me’ at his non-French speaking partner’s language attempts.
I cheerfully finished my coffee and scribbling. When I paid and ordered a scone to go as I had during my last visit, the server said, À Bientôt (see you soon!) Two little words that were like a cherry on top of my experience.
Outside my step was lighter and I didn’t mind the wind and cold so much. I figured I had enough time to stop at my favorite boulangerie for a baguette and made my way there through what I realized were increasingly familiar streets and squares. The woman behind the counter at the boulangerie smiled in recognition when I got there.
With my baguette sticking out of my backpack (I haven’t yet become French enough to carry it under my arm), I was almost home when I made an unplanned stop. It was a little bar that is—for better or worse—just around the corner from my place. I’ve been to “La P’Tite Maiz Le Bar” twice already as it’s a simple, welcoming place where the servers and brewers make everything themselves—both the beer and the light food offerings. I’d had a conversation with one of them before and he’d been really good about letting me tumble over my words as I tried to speak French with him.
This time, there was a different man, Christophe, behind the bar who offered to speak English if I preferred but was gracious when I told him I’d really like to try French if that would be okay. Ultimately, we were laughing and enjoying a real conversation! When I told him I was from a town near San Francisco, he told me about a beer he had in cans (not on tap, unfortunately) from a San Francisco brewery called “The Laughing Monk”. The San Francisco brewer had come to Tours to create the beer together at Christophe’s brewery about twenty miles from here to make a beer just for his bar! That led me to tell him about my daughter Carrie and her friend coming to visit me in late May and that I would definitely bring them to “. I told him about their friendly competition using an app that registers every new beer they try. He was happy to hear that since HIS beer is one of the brands that participates in that app, and he said he was looking forward to meeting them.
A couple of people came in during our conversation and were eavesdropping, but smiling at all the right places, so I didn’t mind. 😉 By the time I left the bar, I was almost skipping the rest of the way home.
I’d started out hopeful this morning, then had been disappointed with my breakfast and again at being turned down at another restaurant. The cloudy, ominous skies had seemed to be creating a suitable setting for my Grinch-like attitude and I was in danger of reciting a litany of all the things going wrong—with the day, my (in)ability to speak French, my confusing plans for the rest of my stay, the fact that I haven’t been able to watch the Warriors for almost two weeks!! because of technical issues, the….
You get the idea.
And then I’d had that lovely experience in Kat’s Cafe where I’d had a great cappuccino, lucked into having that scone again, and been assumed to be French. In the boulangerie, they recognized me, and I paid them with a bunch of change that I actually counted out correctly and fast! I’d been the one who said “Bien tot!” that time when I left.
Finally, I’d made a new friend at the local bar who’d seemed to actually enjoy talking with me and had made me feel that I was exactly where I should be at that moment.
As I walked the few steps to my AirBnb, I was feeling good and smiled as I reviewed my day. I was going to have a little time before I doing my writing group on Zoom for a few hours, and I was looking forward to actually getting some writing done then. It would be great to see familiar faces from home, and I’d be using my laptop for something other than doing taxes and working out train schedules for various heres and theres, or reading world news. I’d sip a glass of Bordeaux while writing and let the words flow!
There would be flowers and butterflies everywhere! 😉
Wherever you go, there you are. Indeed. C’est vrai.
P.S. And it still hasn’t started raining. Bientôt!